Am I the only person in this country who doesn't give a shit about the row over lewd messages left by Jonathan Ross and Russel Brand on Andrew Sachs's answerphone?
We're on the brink of recession in Britain; hundreds of thousands of people could lose their jobs; many will lose their homes. And THIS is the top story of the day? A story about a pair of overgrown, overpaid juveniles who made obscene, prank calls, broadcasting to the world that Russell Brand had sex with Sachs's granddaughter (he did, three times, according to her).
At first I sympathised with Georgina Baillie, described, rather charitably, by The Daily Telegraph as "the leader of a dance troupe" (failing to mention said troupe is burlesque performers The Satanic Sluts). Until I read that she was represented by the arch-purveyor of celebrity scandal, Max Clifford. And until I read the piece in today's Sun.
Georgina is clearly not as disgusted or as upset as she makes out. She takes her kit off for a living. She's made a mint our of this story. And she'll be on some televisual tosh like I'm a Celebrity within a year, no doubt.
But I digress. Why should we care? And why the hell is Prime Minister Gordon Brown - who probably hasn't even heard or read the offending material - wading into the row as well? Ah, but there were almost 20,000 complaints, I hear you say - and how many of them would have complained without the media's obsessive coverage (there were just two complaints on the night).
"It's what everyone in the pub will be talking about tonight," asserted a fellow hack, in defence of his station's blanket coverage. But that's only because every paper's running with it on its front page and because supposedly serious stations like Sky News spent the entire day discussing it.
Okay, so maybe the nation is a bit sick and tired of reading or hearing about plunging stock markets, repossessions and financial meltdown. But enough is enough. I just hope and pray that Brand's resignation means that we can get back to talking about the more important things in life.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Casino Royale : 7/10
A week before Casino Royale sequel Quantum of Solace premiers in London, I thought it would be a good idea to refamiliarise myself with Daniel Craig's James Bond. After all, it begins - as critics never tire of telling us - just an hour after the Craig's debut Bond feature ended: with our emotionally-scarred hero mourning the loss of his dearly beloved Vesper.
Casino Royale was a return to form for the franchise, which woefully lost its way with the almost-satirical Die Another Day, a film so bad it featured a Pierce Brosnan baddie reminiscent of Rick Mayall's Alan B'stard, and lines cornier than a can of Green Giant's finest.
Casino Royale only falls into this trap when Vesper tells James: "If the only thing left of you was your smile and your little finger, you'd still be more of a man than anyone I've ever known."
Otherwise, it's a riot from the moment James make his first kill (played by my brother's old university flat-mate (Dr) Daud, to the heart-breaking (for James) finale.
Critics who have seen the new yarn say it lacks the humour of traditional Bond films. I'll see for myself, thank you very much.
Casino Royale was a return to form for the franchise, which woefully lost its way with the almost-satirical Die Another Day, a film so bad it featured a Pierce Brosnan baddie reminiscent of Rick Mayall's Alan B'stard, and lines cornier than a can of Green Giant's finest.
Casino Royale only falls into this trap when Vesper tells James: "If the only thing left of you was your smile and your little finger, you'd still be more of a man than anyone I've ever known."
Otherwise, it's a riot from the moment James make his first kill (played by my brother's old university flat-mate (Dr) Daud, to the heart-breaking (for James) finale.
Critics who have seen the new yarn say it lacks the humour of traditional Bond films. I'll see for myself, thank you very much.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Sindbad Hotel, Hammamet, Tunisia: 8/10
I hadn't been on a package holiday since my parents dragged me and my big brother to Kos with Cosmos 20 years ago. So when I found myself with a week to kill in October, I was sceptical. We wanted somewhere hot, comfortable and close by, with beach and culture to boot. And we didn't want to spend more than £400 a person.
Scouring through Lastminute.com, we eventually settled upon Hammamet, Tunisia at the five-star Sindbad Hotel. Reading through the conditions, we saw the holiday was offered by one Fleetway Travel, though booking direct through them would have actually cost us more. So I went through cashback site Quidco to the Lastminute website and booked it.
The scheduled flight was on Tunis Air from Heathrow and lasted just two-and-a-half hours (on both journeys the pilots performed the smoothest landings I'd ever experienced).
The trip to Hammamet from Tunis was an hour away by road. Best of all the hotel really was five star: we had a spacious suite, with air-conditioning, a patio and two flat-screen TVs. There was an infinity pool by the beach which the hotel sits adjacent to (you don't even have to cross a road). And, when we felt the urge, we could walk along the sandy shore (not a pebble to be seen) all the way into the centre of town.
It's a bit quiet this time of year, but for five days we had good sunbathing weather, with temperatures of about 25 degrees plus. It rained twice, and we were probably the only non-Germans in the resort (we have Lanzarote, quipped a colleague, the Germans have Hammamet). But I'd definitely recommend both Hammamet (for a cheap beach holiday), and the Sindbad.
Scouring through Lastminute.com, we eventually settled upon Hammamet, Tunisia at the five-star Sindbad Hotel. Reading through the conditions, we saw the holiday was offered by one Fleetway Travel, though booking direct through them would have actually cost us more. So I went through cashback site Quidco to the Lastminute website and booked it.
The scheduled flight was on Tunis Air from Heathrow and lasted just two-and-a-half hours (on both journeys the pilots performed the smoothest landings I'd ever experienced).
The trip to Hammamet from Tunis was an hour away by road. Best of all the hotel really was five star: we had a spacious suite, with air-conditioning, a patio and two flat-screen TVs. There was an infinity pool by the beach which the hotel sits adjacent to (you don't even have to cross a road). And, when we felt the urge, we could walk along the sandy shore (not a pebble to be seen) all the way into the centre of town.
It's a bit quiet this time of year, but for five days we had good sunbathing weather, with temperatures of about 25 degrees plus. It rained twice, and we were probably the only non-Germans in the resort (we have Lanzarote, quipped a colleague, the Germans have Hammamet). But I'd definitely recommend both Hammamet (for a cheap beach holiday), and the Sindbad.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Tunisia - Eyewitness Travel: 9/10
Thumbing through the thin selection of Tunisian guide books at my local Borders/Books etc. in Finchley Road I plumped for the cheapest one on the shelf: a terracota-coloured hardback from Thomas Cook weighing about 2 grams and costing £4.99. I thumbed through it in about 20 seconds, worried that my girlfriend would think me a schnorrer, and put it back.
I was loth to buy another US-twanged Lonely Planet, as they're annoying, aimed at students and generally do little to inspire me. Nestling nonchalently next to it, though, was a modest-looking, glossy, white number by EyeWitness Travel.
It looked alarmingly like something by Insight Guides, which appear to be translated from German, and not particularly proficiently.
It wasn't. I opened it up, to be dazzled by the dizzying array of pictures - so many, so beautifully-crafted - and amazingly-useful maps, the hardback-ish cover, and the elegant writing. I was astounded when I saw that these guides, though published in the UK, are actually translated from Polish (five stars to that translator!).
The only thing that put me off was that it cost £15.99 (in the shop - it's £11.99 on Amazon
) and I was only going away for a week. But I'm glad I took the plunge. This guide is bloody brilliant! I feel like I'm putting away a friend I've just met but to whom I've grown inexorably attached. Perplexingly, Eyewitness Travel is so modest about its Tunisian tome (though not many of its others), that it doesn't even mention that it publishes one on its website. Bizarre.
I was loth to buy another US-twanged Lonely Planet, as they're annoying, aimed at students and generally do little to inspire me. Nestling nonchalently next to it, though, was a modest-looking, glossy, white number by EyeWitness Travel.
It looked alarmingly like something by Insight Guides, which appear to be translated from German, and not particularly proficiently.
It wasn't. I opened it up, to be dazzled by the dizzying array of pictures - so many, so beautifully-crafted - and amazingly-useful maps, the hardback-ish cover, and the elegant writing. I was astounded when I saw that these guides, though published in the UK, are actually translated from Polish (five stars to that translator!).
The only thing that put me off was that it cost £15.99 (in the shop - it's £11.99 on Amazon
) and I was only going away for a week. But I'm glad I took the plunge. This guide is bloody brilliant! I feel like I'm putting away a friend I've just met but to whom I've grown inexorably attached. Perplexingly, Eyewitness Travel is so modest about its Tunisian tome (though not many of its others), that it doesn't even mention that it publishes one on its website. Bizarre.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Time for Bed: 6/10
When it comes to improvised comedy - such as Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned - there are few that can outjoke David Baddiel. When it comes to writing, though, he can be a bit of a drag.
Whatever Love Means - his second book - was given to me by friend Claire more birthdays ago than I care to remember. It was well-written, occassionally funny, and downright depressing. But now I think about it, it left me feeling full-yet-empty, as though I'd just wolfed down a pack of hob-nobs without eating any protein first.
This feeling came flooding back last week after wading through Time for Bed, Baddiel's first novel. I'd been inspired to buy it after listening to the man himself give a reading of it, as part of a one-on-one interview at Limmud in Cambridge.
He read from the "chase" scene at the old-age home housing his character's grandmother. It was very funny. And there are parts of this book that will make you laugh out loud. But it is not - and is probably not designed to be - a gagathon in the mould of my favourite comedy book, Tim Moore's French Revolutions.
In parts, I found it voicing my deeply-hidden feelings about life - such as love being a process, and how men don't always feel it constantly but in moments. But about halfway through, I grew tired of his inner-psyche musings - I just wanted him to get on with the story about the emotionally-stunted Gabriel and his yearning for love and an end to his insomnia. Had he been reading this book, no doubt Gabriel would have had far less trouble sleeping.
Whatever Love Means - his second book - was given to me by friend Claire more birthdays ago than I care to remember. It was well-written, occassionally funny, and downright depressing. But now I think about it, it left me feeling full-yet-empty, as though I'd just wolfed down a pack of hob-nobs without eating any protein first.
This feeling came flooding back last week after wading through Time for Bed, Baddiel's first novel. I'd been inspired to buy it after listening to the man himself give a reading of it, as part of a one-on-one interview at Limmud in Cambridge.
He read from the "chase" scene at the old-age home housing his character's grandmother. It was very funny. And there are parts of this book that will make you laugh out loud. But it is not - and is probably not designed to be - a gagathon in the mould of my favourite comedy book, Tim Moore's French Revolutions.
In parts, I found it voicing my deeply-hidden feelings about life - such as love being a process, and how men don't always feel it constantly but in moments. But about halfway through, I grew tired of his inner-psyche musings - I just wanted him to get on with the story about the emotionally-stunted Gabriel and his yearning for love and an end to his insomnia. Had he been reading this book, no doubt Gabriel would have had far less trouble sleeping.
The Earl of Petticoat Lane: 6.5/10
"When Henry Freedman met Miriam Claret in February 1929, he was a barrow boy, she a milliner's apprentice. In 1953, they were presented to the Queen..."
That sounds exciting, I thought, after reading both the the blurb on the back of The Earl of Petticoat Lane and a gushing review in Time Out.
What's more, author Andrew Miller was in the year above me at school. My own father's family had began its rise up the British social scale in the same East End depicted so vividly in this book. And I'd lapped up the author's dispatches from Russia in The Economist, which he still writes for. But when when finishing the book, it was more relief at having come through some gruelling challenge, rather than delight at having read a literary masterpiece.
That's not to say that it doesn't mesmerise in parts. Miller's investigative verve has pieced together his grandparents' life history. He brings to life - and brings together - the Jewish, the historical and the geographical elements of his family's past. His late grandmother's journey back to Eastern Europe to prove her Jewishness ranks as a highlight.
But the central thrust of the book is that his grandparents not only started off poor (like most Jewish immigrants of the time), but that they ascended the heights of the British aristocracy. Sadly, Miller has been unable to unearth how Henry earned his money, at one point owning one of the multi-million pound Nash flats that lines London's Regents Park.
In fairness, Miller admits as much. But this book could have done with harsher editing because at times, it's just too indulgent, particularly when it comes to the page-numbing missives his grandparents sent to each other and their friends. "I know this is his personal history," I told my girlfriend, "but why do I have to read about it?"
No doubt Miller will learn from this first novel and go on to bigger and better things. He can certainly write - school friends tell me even as a teenager he was heralded as a genius-in-the-making. I'm sure he one day will be.
I updated this post after the author pointed out a couple of errors - please see comments for more details.
That sounds exciting, I thought, after reading both the the blurb on the back of The Earl of Petticoat Lane and a gushing review in Time Out.
What's more, author Andrew Miller was in the year above me at school. My own father's family had began its rise up the British social scale in the same East End depicted so vividly in this book. And I'd lapped up the author's dispatches from Russia in The Economist, which he still writes for. But when when finishing the book, it was more relief at having come through some gruelling challenge, rather than delight at having read a literary masterpiece.
That's not to say that it doesn't mesmerise in parts. Miller's investigative verve has pieced together his grandparents' life history. He brings to life - and brings together - the Jewish, the historical and the geographical elements of his family's past. His late grandmother's journey back to Eastern Europe to prove her Jewishness ranks as a highlight.
But the central thrust of the book is that his grandparents not only started off poor (like most Jewish immigrants of the time), but that they ascended the heights of the British aristocracy. Sadly, Miller has been unable to unearth how Henry earned his money, at one point owning one of the multi-million pound Nash flats that lines London's Regents Park.
In fairness, Miller admits as much. But this book could have done with harsher editing because at times, it's just too indulgent, particularly when it comes to the page-numbing missives his grandparents sent to each other and their friends. "I know this is his personal history," I told my girlfriend, "but why do I have to read about it?"
No doubt Miller will learn from this first novel and go on to bigger and better things. He can certainly write - school friends tell me even as a teenager he was heralded as a genius-in-the-making. I'm sure he one day will be.
I updated this post after the author pointed out a couple of errors - please see comments for more details.
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